


Cigarette Daydreams

by Angelsandstardust



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Blood and Injury, Fluff and Angst, God bashing, Gregory is tired and Christophe just wants to help, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Les Misérables References, M/M, Mentions of War, Mild Innuendos, One Shot, Post BLU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Someone get these two some therapy, This was originally meant to be pure fluff but went downhill fast, Title has nothing to do with the fic I just liked the aesthetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24953155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelsandstardust/pseuds/Angelsandstardust
Summary: Former regrets resurface when a mission stirs up unpleasant memories from the past. Time does not in fact heal all wounds, especially when the scars run so deep.
Relationships: Christophe "The Mole"/Gregory of Yardale, gregstophe - Relationship
Kudos: 19





	Cigarette Daydreams

**Author's Note:**

> More Gregstophe just as promised. This has been sitting in my files for awhile, so I figured why not post it?
> 
> Thanks to my beta Ramnbook! As always, you’re epic.

Gregory took a small, cautionary sip of his tea, letting out a contented sigh. Cinnamon, how delightful. The tangy taste tingled on his tongue, providing just the right amount of spice and warmth he needed, despite the chill in the air.

Leaning idly against the fence post he had stationed himself at—lax yet always vigilant and alert—he took the time to take in his surroundings. It was overcast, the crisp, decaying leaves of the looming oaks fluttered through the ashen coloured sky; shaken from their spindly branches by the gentle breeze.

A tell tale sign of the incoming winter, he noted, watching with mild interest as the foliage performed its ritualistic dance, skittering across the pavement and sweeping past his feet. Autumn was a pleasurable season and always made good on its promise of the vibrant palette of reds and yellows it was known for.

The air was heavy with the feeling of change. It awakened the soul with its cozy aesthetic as residents bunded themselves in layers of various winter apparel to fight the steady decline in temperature.

For the young Englishman, it only served to fuel his rebellious spirit further. He smiled to himself, feeling inspired he began to recite his appreciation in a soliloquy spoken with a dramatic flair only rivalled by Shakespeare himself.

“Thy colours, they changeth as autumn settles ov’r the land, and yet I feeleth’t stirring in mine breast. Yond which endures bountiful bliss, weds mine soul to ‘t. Did bless by the lovely tokens, god smileth upon me this day.”

His reprieve was short lived, however, when a derisive snort alerted him of the only other presence with him. It was accompanied right after by an angered mutter of “Do not praise that bitch.”

Gregory turned, light blue eyes finding his comrade gazing back at him with an intense stare of his own. The brunette’s jaw was clenched, biting down on the cigarette dangled loosely from between his lips; the tip burning a brilliant orange.

“It’s not his blessing, it’s his curse. He’s trying to make us freeze to death.”

Gregory smiled amicably, unfazed by the harsh unsavory words that would make a nun faint. He was accustomed to the ornery Frenchman’s crude mannerisms by now. It was endearing in a way.

“Language, Christophe,” he chided him softly. “Besides, you wouldn’t be griping if you had simply dressed for the occasion as I told you to.”

Christophe growled, grinding the filler between his teeth and raised his middle finger, promptly flipping him off. Such lovely well mannered people the French were. 

The Frenchman was dressed in a threadbare jacket, which had admittedly seen better days; the zipper had long since broken and it was riddled with holes and tears of varying sizes. Why he didn’t simply get a new one was beyond Gregory, the local thrift shop had plenty within his budget. And, those gloves, dear god, what on earth was he thinking? Fingerless gloves in this weather? Gregory could feel the frostbite crowning his fingertips just looking at them. It was a miracle he hadn’t contracted pneumonia, albeit Christophe was nothing if not resilient. Burrowing in dirt and muck had helped him build up an immunity to most common ailments. Still, Gregory couldn’t help but gawk at him in incredulous wonder and awe. The man was such an enigma shrouded in mystery that not even the Brit with his 4.0 GPA could puzzle him out.

Gregory took a more generous sip of his beverage, now confident he wouldn’t be burned, observing his partner with wry amusement. Christophe was currently furiously raking at a pile of leaves covering the ground where he intended to dig. With only a few months left until winter, time was running short and soon the ground would frost over, hindering their progress until spring. Maybe that’s why he was clawing at the ground with such desperation, eager to clear it of the offending debris. Gregory had felt inclined to offer his assistance, however someone needed to keep a lookout and Christophe was much faster than he. So, naturally the task of keeping watch was handed to the Brit.

“Stupid fuckin’ leaves. Why does there have to be so many?” Christophe growled.

“Autumn, love,” he reminded him smoothly, ignoring the heated glare his comrade sent him in response to the snide comment.

“If we weren’t on such a tight deadline, I would shove this rake up your prissy ass.”

“No need to get testy, Tophe.”

Christophe’s eyes narrowed as Gregory’s grin broadened haughtily. He huffed crossly and returned to his work. He had now gathered up most of the colourful foliage into separate piles. He pulled a garbage bag from his belt and began to shove the leaves into it before tossing it to Gregory, who quickly caught it. Finally, he had freed the opening into the tunnel he had started a week prior. With a small triumphant smirk, he shoved the panel hiding his handiwork aside, reaching for the shovel resting against his back and drove the end into the ground.

They were liberating the detainment camps, just as they had done for Canadian prisoners during the war many years ago. It would have been much quicker had they simply tunneled directly outside the compound, albeit a mission as delicate as this required tact. Instead, Gregory decided they would dig the route to freedom from a small farm located just outside the camps. The distance was favourable and the risk of getting caught was lower. Anyone who happened upon them would assume they were farmers. It was the perfect guise.

Yes, he was still playing the lucrative game of espionage, trying to set fire to the world with Christophe at his side. Since the ripe age of nine, Gregory had actively pursued and sought out a means to dismantle the oppression of the lower class and the growing corruption of their government. He was quite enthralled by politics as a boy, and that interest only grew in the coming years as South Park continued its decline into civil unrest. The election of his former teacher Mr. Garrison had ushered in a new dark era. People devolved into the absolute worst versions of themselves after he seized power over the White House with his unorthodox methods and outraged cry of “Fuck em all to death!”

 _Like that would hardly resolve the issue with the Canadians,_ Gregory thought scathingly. _Preposterous_.

Garrison was an incompetent bigot, incapable of running a classroom of fourth graders, let alone an entire country. It was only a matter of time before he fell victim to his own hubris and avarice. Until that happened, Gregory was determined to thwart him by any conceivable means necessary. With his cutlass and a microphone he could lead a nation.

Along with Christophe, of course.

They were an inseparable pair, bonded together by the red string of fate; a string that spanned several miles, soaked in the blood of their enemies. Gregory was the brains of their operation and Christophe the brawn. He gave the commands and Christophe followed them to the letter. It was a dangerous game, one they had been playing since they were children. The thrill and rush of adrenaline as they plunged into peril and narrowly escaped by the skin of their teeth was equally as exhilarating and intoxicating as a potent drug. 

Christophe was his better half, his rock, the voice of reason that kept him from going off the deep end with his schemes. They were polar opposites; Gregory preferring cleanliness and order with his immaculately styled hair and pressed clothes, while Christophe practically lived in the dirt and earth beneath them, his days often spent digging trenches in his mother’s garden. No one really knew how such an unlikely duo came to be, but somehow it worked. Both depended on each other, neither would be able to function without the other.

Mounds of dirt flung in all directions as Christophe viciously attacked the ground with relentless ambition. Gregory moved further along the fencing to preserve his trench coat and pressed slacks from the assault as soil and dust coated the air. Christophe was in his element; the boy could plow through the toughest gravel and bedrock with ease and precision. Gregory was impressed by this skill and had affectionately dubbed him “The Mole” as a result; a name that stuck with him throughout the years, reserved only for the two of them, spoken in hushed whispers under the cover of darkness. 

It was a second name to him at this point, more so than his real one and he jokingly said he would legally change it on several occasions, to which the blond replied in a suave manner that if they were to be married one day Mole St. Clair did not sound as appealing and that he rather fancied Christophe St. Clair, leaving him to sputter indignant obscenities at him in his mother tongue.

He smiled at the memory, studying the brunette fondly as he nursed his drink, pinky extended--seems old habits die hard afterall. Christophe may not be the most eloquent individual, he reasoned, however, he certainly could wield a shovel deftly and with stunning grace; almost as if it had become a part of him, an extended limb of sorts. It was fascinating seeing him in action and Gregory was quite taken by the display, likening him to an archeologist in the field searching for artifacts buried long ago and lost to the sands of time. Would he have chosen that route if he hadn’t become a mercenary for hire? Spending the day slogging through dirt seemed like it would be right up the Frenchman’s alley, and it was far less dangerous. Ancient idols and cursed artifacts were child’s play compared to the death and violence they dealt with on a near day to day basis.

Where would they be now if they had chosen differently?

Gregory mulled over the question. It wasn’t a thought he had often. This was all he knew, he had never considered doing anything else if he had been given the opportunity. He was different from the other children; while they immersed themselves in fairy tales, lands of fantasy and never ending riches, he poured over maps and figures. When they languished the day away watching television and rotting their brains out, he was studying the blade and perfecting it. When they played barbies, he played troops and barricade, plotting to overthrow the bourgeois and capitalist standards of society. This had only isolated and ostracized him from his peers and he was just fine with that, truth be told. Less distractions. 

It wasn’t until Christophe had stormed into his little bubble that he realized what he had been lacking, and while they didn’t always see eye to eye the two became fast friends, as unconventional as they were. Christophe had extended an olive branch into his lonely life, a way out of the solitary confinement he had been shackled to. It led him into something greater.

Well, Christophe would probably be an archeologist, or something along that plain and Gregory? He was quite the politician, so perhaps he could’ve been the next elect. Gregory St. Clair, President of the United States of America. Yes, that had a nice ring to it. He shook his head, dismissing the thought. No, that would be betraying everything he stood for. Gregory was a lot of things but he wasn’t a sellout, not by any means.

Still, the question wouldn’t leave his mind and continued to nag at him. What would life have been like for them? Would it be different at all?

He pursed his lips and furrowed his finely trimmed brow in deep thought. It was hard to imagine a normal childhood without the constant threat of war and what the future would bring. They were children who grew up too fast, robbed of their innocence and wonder by an unforgiving world that was only growing more volatile. All it would take was a spark and the kegbox would go off sending South Park nose diving into anarchy. How could he lament an innocence he could never afford?

“Gregory.”

He blinked, the rough and gravelly accented voice of his associate intercepting his thoughts. Christophe was staring at him, that damned cigarette still perched between his teeth.

“Hm?” He sipped his tea, nonchalantly.

“Quit eye fucking me and do your job, bête.”

Gregory gave a start and coughed as it went down the wrong way. He choked and sputtered for a moment, his throat burning from the cinnamon. Christophe watched the display, a bushy eyebrow raised.

“I was not ‘eye fucking’ you!” The blond spat once he had recovered. He looked affronted by the accusation, an angry shade of red blooming across his face and neck.

Christophe scoffed, taking a long drag of his cigarette and expelling spoke into the air. “Just keep a lookout. I can easily replace you with someone who actually does their job, like that scarecrow over there.” He gestured to the decoration staked into the ground a few feet away. Gregory’s eyes reluctantly followed, glaring daggers at it. It was mocking him with its little beady button eyes and poorly stitched mouth.

“It fends off the crows, which is more than I can say about you.”

“Wh-?!”

He jolted as if he had been slapped in the face. For a fleeting moment he stood stark still, his mouth falling agape. He was quick to recover however, and stormed over to the brunette, leaves crumbling beneath the soles of his boots.

“Excuse me?!” The blond shrieked indignantly, his voice pitching shrilly as he threw his hands up in the air. “I can not believe what I’m hearing here! You wouldn’t even be able to pull this off if it wasn’t for my meticulous plotting, _frog_.” He growled, getting dangerously close to Christophe’s face, enunciating each word with a jab to the Frenchman’s chest.

How dare he threaten to replace him with-with a straw filled decoration of all things! The audacity! Who the hell did that French bastard think he was? He was hurt, really.

Christophe narrowed his eyes at the remark, muddy brown locking onto ocean blue. They held their stare, neither backing down from the challenge posed to the other. Muscles tensed and rigid, jaws tightened, hands clenched into fists.

“Casse couille,” he retaliated lowly. He flicked Gregory’s forehead and stuck his tongue out at him childishly.

“Oh, how mature of you, Christophe.” The blond rolled his eyes, fuming as he rubbed the offending spot. “Is that truly the best you can come up with?”

“Non, I just do not want to waste anymore time arguing with you than we already have.”

Gregory glared at him, unsatisfied with that answer, but soon accepted it anyway. They could be petty later, this mission was far more important.

“Fine. Truce.” He huffed out an exasperated sigh, turning his nose up haughtily.

He looked to the camp in the distance, his face softening, imagining the horrors within, children ripped from their parents arms crying and screeching bloody murder as they reached for the only thing they had. He suppressed a shudder, overcome by a strong sense of deja vu. Yes, he had seen this before, during the war with Canada. Seems history always repeats itself when people are too stupid to listen and learn from the lessons it attempts to educate them with, damning themselves to a lifetime of mistakes instead. They could stand on their soapbox and preach until their face was blue, the truth of the matter was they didn’t learn anything at all. Not a damn thing.

Christophe had retreated back into his hole, venturing deeper within the tunnel. He surmised that he wouldn’t be seeing him again for awhile. He was alone again, with nothing but his thoughts to accompany him. How delightful. A cursory glance at his Rolex told him it was only twenty minutes past six, so they had plenty of time; a whole day in fact. He stifled a yawn in his gloved hand and took another sip of his tea, surprised he hadn’t yet spilled the damn thing.

Most teenagers were slumbering in the warmth and comfort of their beds right now, he mused to himself with a scornful scoff. Certainly not standing in a field in the middle of fucking nowhere freezing their asses off. Such a life he lived. He couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of envy surge within himself as he stewed upon the unfairness of it all.

Even his tea tasted bitter to him now, much like the acrid stab in his heart when he would watch his fellow classmates going about their normal lives as if they weren’t on the cusp of world war three. Even Wendy for all of her self righteous political views turned a blind eye, desensitized to the calamity that befell the town on a near weekly basis. It was Stan’s fault, naturally. He wasn’t still sore about fourth grade. Gregory wasn’t one to hold grudges, it was unbecoming of a sophisticated gentleman such as himself. He was above that. Stan had simply brainwashed her, that’s all. How nice it would have been to have her on their side. A like minded individual with whom he could share his views and not face ridicule.

Such a shame it was for a light so bright to be snuffed out. Christophe tried, bless him, but he merely didn’t understand, only offering an indifferent shrug or a biting remark as commentary when Gregory demanded more. He supposed ignorance really was bliss as the adage goes. They weren’t kept awake at night by swarming thoughts, lingering apprehension and dread that the next morning could be the last they’d see. No, their only worries stemmed chiefly from relationships, grades and typical teenage drama, as to be expected from the average sophomore.

Sometimes, he yearned to know how that felt. However, Gregory knew it wasn’t in the cards for him. He could never live an ordinary life when he was so out of bounds with the definition of that very word. He resigned himself to it, this was his burden to bear, the price of intellect and reason in a world of doltish, slack jawed, redneck yokels.

Gregory carded a hand through his hair, disturbing the neatly styled curls. His mind was wandering again. He needed to focus and do his job. He glanced at his watch again and sighed. This was the most tedious aspect of his work, he hated standing idly by and biding his time while Christophe got all of the action. At least with his charts and schematics he was able to keep himself preoccupied, even so he didn’t have them on his person. It only served as a distraction and he needed to remain vigilant and alert.

He shifted his feet, growing restless with the monotony. Damn it all, he couldn’t concentrate with the never ending stream of thoughts buzzing around him like pesky little flies; swat one down and more would appear. He couldn’t be left to his devices for long without falling back into the workings of his muddled mind, addled by stress and fatigue. Gregory’s highbrow thinking was not only his greatest strength, but also his greatest weakness. His Achilles' heel, if you will. One poorly timed conception could cripple him.

Gregory rubbed his temples to soothe the dull throb that had started beneath them. He bit his lip, worrying it beneath his teeth. He was getting worked up over nothing, Christophe would be back soon, everything was fine. He cursed himself for being so irrational. That wasn’t like him, he was always collected and held himself in such a manner. Just what had him so rattled?

His eyes flickered down to the hollow entrance Christophe had dug out and suddenly it clicked. The gears within his mind started to turn. He stiffened as if he’d been drenched in cold water, exhaling a shaky breath in the shape of a cloud.

Christophe had died on a mission similar to this one; one he had sent him on when they were just children. His one regret, trusting Marsh to carry out a mission he was ill equipped for. Stan wanted to prove himself capable to Wendy, the apple of his eye, insisting that he go with Christophe to the USO show instead of Gregory. Thinking with his dick as Christophe eloquently put it, the hearts in his eyes flooding his vision and impairing his judgement. His incompetence killed Christophe and compromised the mission. Never send a boy to do a man’s job.

If only he’d gone with him instead. If only he’d done the intel on the building, he would’ve known about the guard dogs beforehand and spared Christophe the pain of his unruly death at the jaws of those beasts.

So many regrets, so much weight for a young boy to shoulder. But, that’s the way it goes, in war you’re shat upon. He had known going into it that there would be casualties, he was prepared himself to die for his cause. However, he wasn’t prepared to face the gruesome sight that awaited him when the smoke finally cleared.

His breath began to quicken, the mug shaking in his tremulous hands, droplets spilling over the rim and onto the ground below; some targeting his boots. He didn’t have time to bemoan the expensive footwear. He could only stare at the hole with wide eyes, unable to tear them away. His mind was unraveling, freeing memories long since repressed in the fraying ends of sanity.

His throat tightened, the scarf he wore choking him. The mug fell from his grasp and shattered, spraying porcelain across the ground. His hands had now freed themselves of his momentary paralysis and wrestled with the scarf, ripping it from his neck. He gasped out a breath, his lungs burning from the strain and lack of oxygen. The scarf fluttered in the breeze, the red and black colours almost reminiscent of the resistance flag that hung proudly in his bedroom.

_Red: the colour of blood soiling the ground. Oh god, there was so much of it…he didn’t think it was possible for a boy to bleed so much._

He stumbled back a step, hand clasped over his mouth, the other clutching the fabric in a white knuckled grip. His eyes burned against the smoke and brimming tears obscured his vision. Christophe’s words echoed hollowly in his ears like a sinister whisper.

“ _This is real life, with consequences you take to the grave!"_

Gregory used to brush off such statements, Christophe always had a rather...nihilistic and pragmatic outlook than he. Only now did he see the truth in it, and although Christophe was alive and well Gregory would always carry the shame and remorse with him.

As well as the memory; still fresh in his mind after all these years. He would close his eyes and find himself returning to that field. To those haunting eyes, devoid of life, the rich brown that often scrutinized him veiled by a milky film. To parted lips, blue and overrun with blood. To rough calloused skin, marred and mangled by fatal lacerations and bite wounds. His clothes, pristine and kempt, sullied by a dark red substance that tainted the snow as he cradled the still body in his arms. The cloying metallic stench of decomposing flesh smothering his senses and threatening to suffocate him if he breathed it in any longer.

Gregory choked back a gag, the sickeningly sweet dry smell making him retch. No longer could he hear the chirping of birds singing their mating call. There was only the distant sound of artillery fire and shells exploding in the night air, followed by the screams of ill fallen soldiers and innocent bystanders alike.

He could only stare at the mutilated corpse in stark horror as everything blurred and blended into white noise ringing in his ears. Pallid cheeks quickly became dampened with the tears that now spilled unabashedly from owlish disbelieving eyes.

“Chris..” He choked out through a sob, reaching a trembling hand towards the prone figure, fingertips only within an inch of reaching him. He gasped as the image suddenly shifted, jolting him back to the present.

It was gone.

Gregory blinked and stared bewilderedly at the hole in the ground where just moments ago Christophe laid. He panted, gulping back short shallow breaths into his burning lungs. Slowly he brought his hand from his mouth and wrapped his arms around himself. His fingers dug into the sleeves of his trench coat with a slight tremor, gripping them tightly for security.

“Reste fort,” the Englishman mumbled the mantra to himself like a prayer, the familiar words soothing his unrest only mildly. Christophe often told him these words as a substitute for a pep talk whenever he needed encouragement. Although the beautiful language was clipped by his British accent, they helped keep him grounded in the present.

He drew in another laboured breath, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat. It had been ages since he’d had a flashback so severe. He almost laughed at the irony, eighteen years old and already more seasoned than a damn war veteran; still bearing the scars of a trauma from when he was just a boy with a head full of dreams and stars in his eyes. How quickly that innocence withered and decayed like the crumbling leaves beneath him. The price of freedom was a hefty one and they had both paid for it in more ways than one.

With a weary sigh, he began grounding himself yet again with the familiar sights and sounds around him. It was routine to him by now. He spent the next few minutes counting the trees in the small clearing and listening to the squawk of crows as they congregated around the scarecrow Christophe had threatened to replace him with. What used to take hours now only took mere minutes, he had trained himself to overcome it much more quickly. A muddled mind only presented an opportunity for mistakes, which could be detrimental in the field.

By the time the sound of a dying giraffe arose from the hole—Christophe’s signal even after all of those years— and the Frenchman resurfaced he had composed himself, standing obediently at his post like nothing had happened. All traces of tears on his cheeks were scrubbed away before they could harden and incriminate him, the broken mug disposed of discreetly.

Gregory’s heart skipped a beat upon seeing him again, yet he subdued his relief in favour of indifference.

“You’re back early.” The blond raised an eyebrow, cold eyes watching him intently.

Christophe grunted an affirmative, tossing his shovel up over the edge of the hole before promptly hauling himself out.

“Needed a break,” he said stiffly.

“Any progress?”

“Oui. Should be done soon.”

He reached into the folds of his jacket for his packet of cigarettes and a lighter. One flick and the flame leapt to life, burning on the end of the cigarette. He took a hearty drawl and blew it out into the air, coughing slightly.

Gregory wrinkled his nose at the stench, but made no comment otherwise. Christophe had been chain smoking since he was old enough to walk, it was no use arguing with him. By now he’d learned his lesson when it came to nitpicking the Frenchman and his habits.

“How soon is soon?”

“Few days at most.”

Gregory nodded his approval. Christophe replaced the makeshift wooden door, effectively sealing the entrance. He stalked past him, taking shade beneath one of the trees nearby. He reached into the foliage above and twisted an apple free from the branches before plopping himself unceremoniously on the ground below with a grunt. Gregory joined him shortly after, opting instead to stand and lean against the trunk. They rested together in companionable silence, Christophe working away at his cigarette, Gregory staring out at the field with distant clouded eyes.

Christophe took a bite out of his apple, cigarette pinched between the fingers of his other hand.

“You’ve been quiet,” he noted, inclining his head to look up at the blond. “It’s not like you.”

“I’m just thinking is all,” came the absentminded reply.

“You think too much.”

Gregory knew Christophe long enough to know that really meant “Stop overthinking things, you prissy bitch.” It was subtext that mattered with Christophe; what was in between the lines rather than what was spoken aloud.

“Thinking is what keeps us alive. This plan needs to be perfect. I can’t afford to make the same mistakes, Mole. I won’t.” Resolve flashed in his eyes, glaring with determination. “I’ll take every precaution if I must. Cross the I’s, dot the T’s. I won’t rest until I can be sure everything will go smoothly. I trust that you realize just how dangerous this mission is.”

“Comes with the territory.” Christophe took another bite of his apple, spitting out a seed. “Like any other job.”

“This is different,” Gregory said, closing his eyes. “This isn’t your average assasination or drug bust. We’re dealing with kids, not grown men. I’d like to proceed with minimal casualties if possible.”

“Gregory.” Christophe shook his head, incredulous smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

“Among other things,” he mumbled, not meeting his eyes.

A hand fell upon his arm, startling him out of his reverie. He looked down, meeting Christophe’s dark and earnest eyes.

“If anyone is capable, it’s you. I will always follow you no matter what, mon amour.”

“But, you don’t believe in anything.”

“I believe in you.”

_That’s what worries me._

Gregory smiled wanly, resting his hand over Christophe’s.

“Do you remember the war?” He asked haltingly, gauging his response carefully.

Christophe stiffened. His face darkened, immediately recoiling from his grasp as if it had burned him. He averted his eyes, a pained look flickering across the deep pools of brown.

“Oui...although I’d prefer not to.”

The Frenchman raised his cigarette to his lips again for another puff. The small tremors throughout his fingers did not go unnoticed by Gregory’s keen eye.

“You died,” the Brit supplied, his own voice uneven and wavering.

“It was a long time ago,” he replied guardly, his shoulders tense. It was a sensitive subject, one that was tiptoed around whenever it was addressed more often than not. Time does not in fact heal all wounds, especially when the scars run so deep.

“I overlooked the variables.”

“We were nine,” Christophe stressed exasperatedly. “You couldn’t have known everything.”

Gregory scoffed disdainfully. “Please Christophe, I had a 4.0 Grade point average, don’t make excuses for me. If I had just done the intel-“ he started, only for Christophe to hold up his hand, silencing him.

“Non, do not blame yourself. It was the fat kid who forgot to turn off the alarms.”

“And who sent him?” Gregory retorted with a grim smile. “I could’ve gone myself, but instead I sent _Stan_ and his cohorts.” He spat out the word as if it was the most repulsive thing he had the displeasure of saying, seething with rancorous vitriol.

Christophe raised his eyebrows. He knew how much Gregory hated Stan, he’d never forgiven him for stealing Wendy’s hand. Since then the animosity manifested into an everlasting rivalry between them; one always attempting to one up the other and make him look foolish.

“I knew they were inexperienced in the field,” Gregory continued, his lip curling into a sneer. “Their idea of rebellion was prank calling the police.” He snorted with contempt. “How juvenile.”

Christophe bit back a laugh, amusement alight in his eyes. Gregory pouting was a sight to behold, he looked adorable with his lip protruding out, a stark contrast to the regal and poised way he held himself around others. Christophe was grateful he had the privilege of seeing the Brit without all of the smoke and mirrors. To see his imperfections and blemishes. It only made him love him more.

“Putain de merde!” He exclaimed. “Amateurs didn’t even know what a clitoris is. Why did you send them?”

“I don’t know...” Gregory admitted, softly. “I’ve asked myself so many times. I don’t know why I trusted them. It was a total lack of judgment on my part.”

“Don’t take all the credit, Canary. I trusted them too.”

“Only because I sent them. You were simply following orders.”

Christophe pursed his lips into a thin line. He was quiet for a long moment. He simply looked up at the man towering over him, just as he had done when they were children. Always looking up to him like he was some sort of god—the only god he believed in. He certainly looked the part, standing elegantly before him in all his radiant glory, the soft rays of the rising sun highlighting the golden tresses framing his angelic face. How could Christophe not view him as such? He belonged in a painting, forever immortalized as the intrepid leader of La Resistance.

Perhaps it was his fault for thinking so highly of him, for forcing him onto a pedestal, for filling his head with aspirations he could never achieve. Now that the rose coloured lense was removed, he saw him in a new light, more raw and refined, more real. While he still deeply venerated him, he had come to realize how flawed he really was, faults that Gregory himself could never acknowledge or admit to.

His hand found purchase on Gregory’s arm again, catching him around the crook of his elbow. He gently gave a tug, bringing the Englishman down to his level, no longer seeing him as his superior but as an equal instead.

“Sit,” he said gently, yet there was a stern undertone to his command.

Gregory gave him a questioning look but obliged, kneeling beside him, his coat fanning around the grass. Christophe’s hand didn’t leave his arm nor did it make any move to direct it; merely providing a semblance of comfort as it rested there. Blue eyes darted down to it then back to his face, holding his gaze. It didn’t take long to find himself immersed in the cerulean as he always did during moments like these, appreciating every flutter of Gregory’s long eyelashes, every twinkle whether it be from the light or mischief. There was something so mesmerizing about that gaze, it hypnotized him with its seductive nature; one look and he would do anything the man asked of him.

The sadness within them now made his heart ache. The fire they once held thoroughly extinguished, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake. He looked tired, far too tired for someone so young. His eyes held a tremendous burden that weighed down the dark rings underneath them, almost appearing alien on his generally flawless complexion.

He could see he was more tormented than he let on, shouldering the weight of the world as he always did. A righteous martyr for the people who couldn’t make a stand themselves. Gregory had never looked more vulnerable than he did in that moment. He’d closed that part of himself off to the public eye, even to Christophe. He didn’t like showing weakness, a trait they shared in common. Softened hearts had no place on the battlefield where the slightest misstep could spell out a potential death sentence. War had since hardened their hearts and minds, pain stirred passion and furthered conviction.

The fact that Gregory had lowered his walls was shocking to say the least. Although he hid it well behind arrogant smiles and snide remarks, Christophe saw through the facade. Inside the war had broken him, he’d never fully recovered from it.

Affection was never Christophe’s strong suit, he’d never been shown it as a child so he didn’t exactly know how to portray it. There was one thing however, a sure fire way to bring the light back into those dull eyes.

“Permets-tu?” He asked him gently, a hopeful look on his face.

A sad smile was his answer, almost as if Gregory had been expecting it. He wasted no time and turned, bringing his arms around the blond in a tight embrace, pressing Gregory close to his chest, his hands running through the soft golden curls, gripping them protectively. Gregory returned the hug just as fervently, clinging to the back of Christophe’s jacket like it was the only thing keeping him afloat amongst the turbulent waters of his mind. He inhaled sharply, breathing in the musky scent of earth and tobacco; a scent that could only belong to the Frenchman. It was both suffocating and comforting at the same time, cementing the fact that Christophe was with him, he was alive and holding him. Gregory never wanted him to let go.

“Je t'ai manqué. Je suis désolé,” Christophe spoke in a hushed tone, ripe with remorse.

Gregory’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “What on earth are you talking about?” “You can’t possibly be blaming yourself for what happened.”

“I screwed up the mission.”

“You can’t be serious.” He drew back to look at him, incredulous. Christophe was reluctant to meet his concerned gaze, reaching for his cigarette again. He was stopped by Gregory’s hand grabbing his wrist.

“Chris,” he pleaded, eyes soft. “You cannot fault yourself for dying, that’s absurd! You didn’t fail me either, you did exactly as I wanted. You got Terrance and Phillip out. Do not blame yourself for the incompetence of others.”

“That’s a bit hypocritical, considering that’s what you’ve been doing,” Christophe spat, although his words held no real heat to them. Gregory stiffened, the remark giving him pause. He made to move but Christophe held him firmly, dark eyes burning into his lighter ones, hoping the memo would register in his thick skull.

“You should take your own advice, mon cher.”

A wry smile spread across his face. “Checkmated by my own words. My, aren’t you clever, Delorne. You should join the debate team.”

“And deal with a bunch of self righteous assholes? Pass. One is enough for me.” He grinned at the Englishman, his broken gap toothed smile exposed. The sight made butterflies stir and flutter in Gregory’s stomach. Christophe rarely showed his teeth when he smiled; even in photos it was always tight lipped and guarded. He was ashamed of his imperfect smile; a lasting result from the guard dogs as well as several scars hidden under the collar of his shirt.

Gregory’s smile softened, growing more genuine and affectionate. “You have such a lovely smile. Really, it’s a shame you don’t show it more often.”

He smirked, seeing the furious shade of red blooming across Christophe’s face as a result.

“I think you’re more tired than you thought,” he stated bluntly.

“Don’t be modest. It’s unbecoming of you.”

“I look like a homeless guy.”

“A rather fetching one at that,” Gregory purred, his teeth shining in a flawless grin. Christophe gave him a pointed look.

“Non, you just have poor taste.”

“Can’t I compliment my dearest? After all, you’re always complimenting me. It’s only fair I return the favour.”

“Gregory,” he growled, the inflection of warning lost on him. Gregory wasn’t deterred, he leaned forward, caressing his burning cheek with a leather covered hand, guiding his head towards him. Christophe unknowingly leaned into the touch.

“Just take the compliment, mon petit soldat.”

“I regret teaching you French.” He huffed, his face still flushed with indignation. Albeit, he couldn’t dwell on it for long as soft lips pressed a chaste kiss against the corner of his mouth.

“Je t’aime.”

Christophe froze for a fleeting moment, allowing Gregory a brief moment of satisfaction before reaching and grabbing the tail end of his scarf to pull him back in; chapped dry lips capturing the Englishman’s in a passionate embrace that left him momentarily breathless.

“Je t'aime aussi, connard,” he murmured as they parted, holding his chin up with his thumb and index finger.

Gregory hummed in response, his eyes clouded in a daze of ecstasy. He licked the apple juice from his lips, then made a face, eyebrows drawn together in displeasure.

“Your breath is ghastly. Tar and apples is not a good combination might I add.”

Christophe shrugged. “It's not like I carry mouthwash with me, cher.”

“Well, maybe you should. At least a mint or two to cleanse that ashtray you call a mouth.”

“Fuck you and your mints.”

“Fine.” Gregory pecked his lips again. “Consider your kissing privileges revoked.”

Christophe snorted. “I’ve stolen from top government agencies. You think I can’t steal a kiss? You insult me.”

“Well, I’m not going to make it easy on you.” The blond’s grin broadened, akin to the Cheshire Cat.

“Is that a challenge?” His eyes narrowed.

“Perhaps.”

“You’re on, blondie.”

“Splendid.” Gregory unsheathed his cutlass from his belt and stood. Christophe raised a brow, wondering just how he anticipated it. Was this his plan all along?

“It has been awhile since we last sparred together,” Gregory noted, as if he could read his mind and there was no doubt in Christophe’s mind that he could. Those calculating eyes saw through all of his defenses and into his very soul. They saw the most vulnerable parts of him that he kept hidden.

“Bâtard fou.” Christophe chuckled lowly, shaking his head. He reached over his back for his shovel, rising to his feet as well.

“If you wanted to fight all you had to do was ask. I’m still getting that kiss, princesse.”

With that as his battle cry, he lunged forward prepared to strike. Gregory was ready for him and nimbly blocked the attack, wood clashing against metal. They quickly fell into step, blocking and evading the others' advances. Block, parry, thrust. It was a dance they were all too familiar with. Gregory was adept in sword fighting, having practiced and perfected the blade since he was a school boy. His cutlass was an extension of his body, slicing through the air in a flourish of patented finesse and grace. Christophe’s shovel was just as much a part of him as Gregory’s sword was. For an unconventional weapon, he wielded it with precision and stunning accuracy, his lessons with Gregory clearly showing. However, to Gregory’s chagrin, he still chose to carry around his trusty shovel in lieu of an actual sword.

“I believe you’re getting a bit rusty. Perhaps another lesson is in order.”

Christophe scowled at his jeering remark, catching the incoming blade and swinging it back. Gregory smirked, deftly dodging the attack.

“Ah, that is where you are wrong, Gregory The Turd,” Christophe sniped, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards into an impish sneer. Gregory frowned at the insult; a mispronunciation of his title that had followed him since they first met as children.

“A bit old for such boyish remarks, aren’t we?” He caught the handle of the shovel as it soared towards him and brought it back, swiftly overpowering the Frenchman and sending him crashing to the ground.

Christophe grunted as he felt his back hit the ground, the breath knocked out of him temporarily. A blade was thrust near his face before he could react, demanding obedience. He stared up at the smug blond looming over him, beaming with triumph and relishing his victory.

“Now, now, Christophe,” he tutted. “You must stop ‘thinking with your dick’, as you say. If you thought I would let my guard down, you’re terribly mistaken, dear Tophe.”

“Ah, but maybe that’s what I’m counting on.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Gregory tilted his head to the side, inquisitively. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Christophe smirked knowingly. “You have tact, but your hubris will be your downfall, mon cher. You let yourself get distracted in your gloating and in doing so gave me an opening.”

Before Gregory could open his mouth to respond or even possibly think to react, a hard kick to his shin sent him stumbling over and falling onto Christophe.

The Frenchman chuckled huskily as Gregory cursed, realizing his mistake. Sturdy arms pinned him down, preventing any means of possible escape. He growled, struggling furiously against him. Betrayal evident in his glaring cerulean eyes. Unfazed by his futile attempts, Christophe claimed his prize; lips brushing together in a soft kiss. Taking a moment to catch his breath, he spoke again, warm tufts of air tickling the revolutionary’s neck and eliciting an involuntary shiver down his spine.

“Je prends le baiser que j'ai gagné.”

“Bastard,” Gregory grounded out through gritted teeth.

“All is fair in love and war, mon ami.”

“Let go of me, you rogue!” he huffed. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “Eck! You smell like an ashtray!”

“It is better than your fancy smancy cologne, mon cher. The only thing you’ll be attracting is fire.”

“I attracted you, didn’t I?”

“Oui, that is true, but not because of the cologne.”

“Mhm, it was my devilish good looks and charm, wasn’t it?” He batted his eyelashes flirtatiously, flashing a winning smile.

Christophe snorted. “You’re a damn tease. I guess you can be pretty distracting, like right now.”

“Said the pot to the kettle. You’re always distracting me from my work. It’s a wonder I get anything done with you around!”

“You work too hard, poodle.” Christophe pressed a kiss into his forehead, releasing him. Gregory rolled off of him, making himself comfortable by his side, resting his head against the brunette’s chest.

“I didn’t say they weren’t welcome distractions,” he mumbled. Christophe smiled, holding his arm around him.

“Neither did I.”

“It’s maddening how you affect me. I can barely think around you.” Gregory sighed, blissfully. “Here I am…swaddled by the thickest coat- and yet somehow, I am warmer than ever.”

“It’s the sweat.”

“Not that. I mean in a sentimental sense; as in one finding their heart warm with feeling.”

Christophe hummed absentmindedly, feigning interest as Gregory prattled on with his monologue, toying around with his dog tags. They lay entwined in a comfortable silence as the adrenaline slowly began to fade from the fight. Christophe listened as he always did when Gregory launched into one of his lengthy spiels about whatever he was passionate about, chin resting against flaxen curls. It was difficult to keep up with the Brit sometimes and he often found himself lost in whatever nonsensical nonsense Gregory got on with, so he was content to just listen and enjoy the sound of his beloved’s silkin voice.

Gregory trailed off, his brows pinching together. He shifted slightly, glancing up at Christophe with a frown. “Christophe...what am I feeling against my thigh?”

The Frenchman, in turn, wiggled his eyebrows with a smirk. He snickered as realization dawned over the other man’s face, quickly turning to abject horror and mortification. Gregory shot up with an indignant yelp. He backed away from him, his face coloured with embarrassment.

“For God's sake, Christophe! That’s disgusting!”

His delayed reaction made Christophe roar with laughter, tears springing to his eyes as he held his sides. “Mon dieu, I can’t believe you fell for it!” he wheezed out. “The look on your face! It’s priceless!”

“What the hell are you talking ab--” Gregory’s eyes widened as Christophe held up his shovel. “You bastard,” he hissed.

“Desole, mon amore. I couldn't help myself.” Christophe chortled, wiping a tear from his eye. “Etta. She was right there, it was too perfect.”

“I would destroy that cursed shovel if it wasn’t vital to our operation.” Gregory seethed, his jaw tightened vexedly.

“Don’t listen to him, Etta,” Christophe cooed, holding said aforementioned shovel close and stroking the spade tenderly. “Il est stupide.”

Gregory rolled his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, forcing the leaves out that had clung to his curls, then briskly brushed over his coat and trousers, trying and failing to look dignified. He let out a long suffering sigh, tucking away a wayward strand of hair that escaped his immaculately tamed tresses behind his ear.

“My hair causes me such angst.”

“Tais-toi. Your hair is fine, stop being a prissy stuck up bitch.”

“Oh, go make out with your shovel, dirt boy.”

“Va te faire foutre.”

“Such vulgar language! I’m aghast.” He gasped, holding a hand to his chest and imitating offense. Christophe rolled his eyes, smiling at his antics.

“I thought you loved me, Christophe.” Gregory’s lip trembled as he carried on the act, draping an arm across his forehead dramatically. “Oh, how will I possibly go on without my love? I shan’t. O happy dagger! This is thy sheath; there rust and let me die!”

With those parting words, he proceeded to raise his sword and mime stabbing himself in the chest with dramatic flair. Gasping, he staggered back, falling against Christophe who promptly caught him before he could crash onto the ground.

“Oh, mon amour! Death has sucked the honey from your breath, but it has not yet ruined your beauty!” The Frenchman cried, cradling his limp body in his arms as he played along with his antics.

“That’s not how it goes,” Gregory corrected in a harsh whisper, his eyes still closed.

“Oh, Juliet! I shall bury you now,” Christophe went on, ignoring him.

“Wait, what—?”

He lifted him up bridal style and carried him towards the hole he had dug. Gregory’s eyes widened in alarm. “Christophe, put me down!” he shrieked, swatting fervently at him.

“Ah, sometimes I can still hear his voice,” Christophe mused solemnly, his grip tightening around him.

“Unhand me this instant, you ruffian!”

“Mon pauvre petit oiseau…There is still red in your lips and in your cheeks. Death has not yet turned them pale.”

“I’m not dead, you cack!” The Englishman thrashed about, glaring heatedly at the dry amusement reflecting off of the other. “I know you can hear me, Christophe.”

“Ah, dear Gregory. Why are you still so beautiful?” Christophe bemoaned, stroking his cheek gently. Gregory swatted his hand away venomously.

“I swear to God if you put me in that hole-!”

Christophe halted in his tracks, umber eyes wide and incredulous. “Gregory? Is that you, princesse? Mon dieu, you’re alive!” He rejoiced, spinning him around before peppering his face in feverish kisses.

“Chris, stop!” Gregory gasped out through a fit of giggles. He tried in vain to fend off the assault, squirming and trying to wiggle himself free from Christophe’s ruthless attacks to his ivory skin. Finally, Christophe relented, setting him down so he could regain the breath he had stolen from him. He wobbled, knees threatening to give away as he righted himself, shooting a glare at the other with his arms folded over his chest.

“I’m still cross with you.”

“I would have given you a proper burial, then dug you out an hour later.”

“An hour?!” He sputtered, recoiling in rapt horror. Christophe nodded, soberly, lighting another cigarette and puffing out a plume of smoke.

“Oui, you could use the sleep. You look exhausted.”

“Oh, nonsense.” He waved a dismissive hand, his demeanour faltering slightly under Christophe’s scrutinizing and knowing gaze.

“I really am fine, Mole.”

Christophe continued to search his face insistently, knowing he was being lied to. “When was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?”

Gregory didn’t flinch as those dark eyes burned through his, demanding an answer he didn’t have. He matched his stare defiantly, urging him to back down with an intense look of his own. Christophe wasn’t intimidated in the slightest and only nodded curtly, his suspicions confirmed.

“Exactly,” he spat matter of factly.

Gregory sighed, adjusting his gloves. “I’m far too busy, Christophe. There’s much to do. We’re already well behind schedule.”

“You’re going to burn yourself out, mon ange,” Christophe pressed.

“I know my limits.”

“You don’t think you _have_ any. That’s the problem.”

Gregory put a hand on his shoulder with a smile, silencing him effectively. “Christophe, you're no longer a child. I do not doubt you mean it well-“

“Oh non, do not fucking quote Les Miserables.”

“But now there is a higher call,” Gregory lilted with bravado. “Who cares about your lonely soul?”

“Gregory-“

“We strive towards a larger goal. Our little lives don't count at all!”

“I will hit you if you don’t stop.”

“Sound trumpets! let our bloody colours wave! And either victory, or else a grave!” Gregory belted vigorously, a knowing mischievous gleam in his eyes as he hoisted his sword high over his head, declaring his pledge to the heavens above.

“C'est dur de t'aimer parfois.” Christophe grumbled, swatting him with his shovel, albeit gently as he didn’t want to actually hurt him.

Gregory flinched back, a simpering smile still on his face. He retaliated, flicking his tongue out at him playfully.

“Bitch.”

His smile blossomed into a sultry grin. “Only for you, darling.”

With a deadpan expression, Christophe extended his middle finger at him. Gregory always knew how to get under his skin and what buttons to push to rile him. It was like a game to him, and never one to back down from a challenge, Christophe pushed back, refusing to let him win so easily. He could be just as meddlesome if he so desired.

He had just opened his mouth to deliver a witty remark of his own, when the alarm on his watch sounded, reminding him of the job he had to do. Gregory deflated at the sound, his stricken expression betraying his true feelings. Christophe heaved a sigh, rolling his shoulders and tightening his grip around the shovel in his hand.

“I have to go.”

Gregory nodded, wordlessly. He knew the moment wouldn’t last, but still voiced his disappointment with a frown. Christophe pressed a parting kiss to his forehead. Gregory pushed him away.

“Keep me informed on your progress,” he ordered, strictly business again. It was incredible how he could seamlessly fluctuate between personas at the drop of a hat, almost as if a switch had been lifted inside of him.

“Oui.” The Frenchman tapped the device in his ear that worked as a communicator between them.

Gregory reached a hesitant hand up to feel his own. He had honestly forgotten he was wearing it. His brows furrowed as realization dawned upon him.

It was still on.

“Christophe…?”

He had already left.  
  


~~~~~

The mission was of course, completed with little incident. A few scrapes and bruises were considered minor in the grand scheme of things when compared to the possibility of broken bones and missing appendages. They had accomplished what they had set out to do; now that the camps were liberated, the children could be returned to their families. They met with their associates, Rodgrigez and Alejandro, at the rendezvous point. Both men promised they would return them safely and off the liberated group went in the bus they hijacked. Now, the mercenaries were alone again, riding the high of another successful endeavour.

“Viva La Resistance.” Gregory hummed softly to himself, watching the flames as well as rising smoke and ash billowing in the distance. Christophe tinkered with his lighter in the passenger seat beside him, working on the cigarette clenched between his teeth.

“How does it taste?”

“What?”

“Your words. How do they taste?”

Gregory frowned at the rhetorical question, his grip tightening around the steering wheel. He could feel Christophe’s gaze staring him down.

“Why so tense?”

“I’m not tense,” he argued stubbornly. “I’m just—“ he sighed, “tired is all.”

Christophe breathed out a ring of smoke through the opened window. “So, you admit it. Why not let me drive for awhile?”

“Absolutely not! The last time you set foot behind the wheel you drove into someone’s backyard and nearly ran over their dog.”

“Fucking dogs,” Christophe grumbled with a scowl of contempt. “I promise I won’t run us off the road. Scouts honour,” he pledged, holding a hand over his chest and raising the other in a solemn oath.

The blond raised an eyebrow, dubiously. “You were never a scout.”

He shrugged. “Same rules apply, no?”

Gregory gave him a hard stare before shaking his head and closing his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat.

“I’m driving. I merely need to rest my eyes for a moment.”

“Tu fais éclater mes couilles.” Christophe rolled his eyes, snapping his lighter shut once more. “I give you five minutes and you’ll be asleep, maybe less.”

“....”

“Gregory!”

He shoved his shoulder, causing the revolutionary to jolt upright with a start. Immediately, his eyes shot open, darting around the car in a frenzied search for prominent threats, his muscles tense and poised to strike and attack any possible intruder. Seeing that there was no danger, only Christophe’s dour expression, Gregory relaxed, his relief turning into a glower as he slapped his boyfriend’s shoulder with a hiss.

“Don’t startle me like that!”

“Foutu bordel. Move over, I’m driving.”

Before he could fuss over it, Christophe had grabbed hold of him and was forcefully dragging him from the seat and into his lap.

“Ouch! Chris! For god sakes, you could’ve used the door!” Gregory yelped as he was manhandled, bumping his head against the roof of the car in the process. In the ensuing struggle, he groped for the handle of the door and thrust it open once his hand had found purchase, shoving him out none too gently.

“Shit!” Christophe landed roughly with a grunt, scraping his elbow against the blacktop. He quickly brought himself to his feet and rounded the vehicle to the driver's seat before Gregory could reclaim it.

The blond paid him no mind as he rummaged through the glove compartment, substituting his driving gloves for the pair he always wore (they were identical, but he insisted he could tell the difference)

“You so much as put a dent in Cosette and I’ll beat you with your own shovel.”

“I still think Coralie is better.”

“Well, when you get your own vehicle you can name it what you want,” Gregory huffed in annoyance.

“Do you still have my CD? I’m not listening to this bullshit all the way home.”

He made a noise of disapproval, pulling the case out of the compartment and thrusting it at him.

“I can’t fathom how you can stomach this inane dribble.”

“It's not the words that matter, mon ami. It’s how they make you feel.”

“Repulsed, disgusted, infuriated. ShalI I continue?”

“You’re just angry because it's Marsh.”

The mention of the name made Gregory bristle, albeit he said nothing, choosing not to voice his contempt. He merely grit his teeth together, turning his nose up to the Frenchman.

“That’s not it at all. They had potential and they sold out, becoming yet another cog in the capitalist machine. And that name, it’s so mediocre. Crimson Dawn. They’ve had it since elementary, why not change it?”

Christophe snorted.

“Yeah, it’s Stan alright.” He blew out a ring of smoke, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to the vivacious beat blasting over the speakers.

“If it was anyone else, I would still hate them rightfully so.”

“Uh huh, whatever you say, princesse.”

“Just start the car already.” Gregory sighed, leaning on his hand. The trees rolled past him as Christophe steered down the dirt road. The fire grew more distant as he watched it in the rear view mirror until it had all but disappeared beyond the canopy of evergreens and thick brush.

They drove on in silence, only the rancorous enraged singing of Crimson Dawn’s lead singer piercing the tension that was building. It embittered the blond further.

“I’m a far better singer,” he gripped, his jaw tightening in frustration. Christophe side eyed him.

“Oui, you are, but I don’t have a recording of you for when you’re not around.”

“I can make one, Christophe. It’s not difficult.”

“Well, if the mercenary thing doesn’t work out at least you have something to fall back on.”

Gregory turned towards him, his interest piqued. “You think I should become a singer?”

He shrugged, his eyes fixed intently on the road ahead. His hand reached over, finding the blond’s knee and giving it an encouraging squeeze.

“Your voice, it is very inspirational. You can get people to do anything. It is awe inspiring.”

“Music does have more appeal to the masses,” Gregory hummed, considering the idea. “Perhaps we could spur them to take action with the proper lyrics. Brilliant idea, Tophe! Why didn’t I think of it sooner?”

“I’ve always wanted to start a band,” Christophe agreed with a nod. “What would we call it?”

He thought for a moment before brightening with a smile. “Coeur D’alene.”

The remainder of the drive was spent discussing genres of music and what would work best, as well as potential lyrics for their first hit. As the 96 black Impala pulled into the nearest gas station, Christophe glanced over at his boyfriend. Gregory had dozed off, his head resting on his hand. The Frenchman knew he wasn’t going to last the trip back. He could see just how tired he was. The mission took a greater toll on him than he let on. The unease and restlessness that permeated from him only cemented that fact. Despite how well he thought he could cover it up, Christophe wasn’t stupid. He knew far more than the Brit realized.

He pressed a kiss to his cheek, careful not to disturb his slumber and slipped out to obtain the energy drink he craved.

Christophe didn’t say anything about it for fear of causing Gregory more pain, but he had also felt apprehensive about this particular mission when Gregory first told him about it. It was far too similar to their last endeavor when the war broke out. Deja vu and the horrific memories of that forsaken night formed a potent cocktail of misery and self loathing that he consumed on the daily. He had gotten careless, assigning such an imperative task to Eric Cartman of all people and as a result failed his partner. His mistake had hurt Gregory more than himself. Dying was easy, knowing that you had caused the death of the one you held dear was a different battle. It filled him with deep sorrow and an instinctive desire to protect the only person who mattered to him.

He lit another cigarette, the end burning a brilliant amber in the dead of the night. Wisps of smoke swirled around him, settling over his lungs as he pulled it from his lips. Sugar and nicotine was the perfect concoction to give him the little jolt he needed to get home. He made his way back to the car, snuffing the butt out with his boot and started the engine.

Hemp Slaughter erupted from the speakers, filling the vehicle with its screamo vibes. He turned down the volume, looking to the man resting beside him once again. Gregory had shifted slightly in his seat, no longer pressed against the window. An angelic beauty, even in his sleep, he lamented. Christophe reached a hand out to cup his cheek, gently brushing the soft strands out of his face with his thumb. Gregory nuzzled against it, mumbling softly to himself. He kissed his forehead, sensing the smile on the other man’s lips.

“Mon ange, je ne laisserai plus rien te faire de mal. Je le jure. Je t'aime.”

Gregory hummed in content, immersed in his pleasant dreams. With a meek smile of his own, Christophe started the car, preparing himself for the last leg of the journey home.


End file.
